Burnt summer,
Another hot summer
Without a drop of water
I wait
It’s only June.
With ochre hives
And forgotten tones
Of emerald green
Parched fields
and thorny hegderows.
A dead speckled wood
I’d rather eat fresh
Is on the menu
today,
tomorrow unknown.
A bleak summer ahead,
Our long forgotten cousins
Creep steathily unseen
Waiting silently
for clouds.
A buttercup-yellow
Marsh marigold forest
Croaked from
Floating reeds and
choked crispy chickweed.
Andrew Toms